


Still Bitter In Glitter

by avatarish



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Engagement, Fluff, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Queer Themes, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Sokka, Stoner Zuko, be gay do crime, iroh smokes weed and does his tea shop thing, obligatory mention of sokka's meme playlist, obligatory zukka stoner au, ozai goes to prison, so obviously they fall in love, sokka convinces zuko to be less uptight, the gaang trashes ozai's mansion, zuko convinces sokka to be less reckless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avatarish/pseuds/avatarish
Summary: Sometimes you have to be a little gay and do a little crime, Sokka tells him, and pulls Zuko headfirst alongside him.-The morally grey Zukka stoner AU you’ve been waiting for.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you've come here from my other fanfics, be warned that this is more mature. This fic contains liberal use of marijuana, sexual content, minor crime in the form of vandalism and destruction of property, and possible violence in the form of Toph with a sledgehammer and a veritable arsenal of curse words.

It starts when Sokka skids into the long, overly dramatic driveway of the Sozin estate, his rusty Toyota spewing gravel and missing the pretentious fountain by mere inches. Zuko is curled up on the porch swing, legs folded underneath him and reading a worn copy of The Divine Comedy. 

“Hey there,” Sokka shouts from the window, ignoring the scornful look the gardener gives him from where he’s watering the roses, “I’m looking for some fuckin’ nerd named Zuko? Nice hair, likes books and shit, about your height?”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Zuko says delicately, unfolding his legs and slotting his book neatly between the porch swing cushions before jumping gracefully up into the cab of the pickup.

“Too bad,” Sokka says idly, before putting the truck in reverse and ignoring the squealing sound the tires make as he floors it backwards out of the driveway and back down the paved residential road. “I was gonna show him a good time.”

-

They end up at the dispensary (when don’t they end up at the dispensary?) with the Sozin family credit card and an entire shelf’s worth of joints to choose from. 

Sokka, weed connoisseur that he is, leans against the clear glass and discusses the merits of pipe versus bong with Alex-the-usual-cashier while Zuko gets money from the ATM and hunts for his usual combination of two Acapulco Gold and two White Widow. He points out what he wants to Alex and pays for his joints and Sokka’s usual eighth of Golden Goat. 

They hit the gas station near Fifth and Maple next for the usual array of snacks, soda, and Sokka’s beloved off-brand rice pudding popsicles that can, for some odd reason, only be found at this particular store. Zuko pays and Sokka doesn’t protest. Neither of them want to talk about why Zuko has the credit card.

-

They end up at Zuko’s apartment in the end. Well, technically, it’s Iroh’s apartment; it sits cozily above the Jasmine Dragon, in the midst of the downtown hipster culture, nestled between the Good Vibrations record shop and the Reiki-Yoga fusion studio that always smells like the good kush. Iroh is sitting on the couch when they barge in, sipping his evening tea and deep in the latest episode of House Hunters.

“You cannot be okay with that little kitchen space! Deborah, you deserve more than that-” He breaks off and stands when he sees them, spreading his arms in joy. “Zuko! I did not know you would be coming back into the city tonight! Welcome home. And Sokka!”

Sokka grins. “Uncle Iroh! I thought a change in scenery might do him some good.”

“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here,” Zuko says, but the complaint is half-hearted, and he’s smiling. “Uncle. It’s nice to be back.”

Sokka clears his throat. “I’m gonna go put our stuff in the room and use the bathroom. Zuko, see you in a bit?”

He passes Iroh and slips something into his hand, mumbles in his ear with a grin before exiting. Iroh chuckles, setting the two-pack of Granddaddy Purple on the coffee table before turning to face Zuko.

“Sokka is very perceptive,” Iroh says knowingly. “My favorite, of course. A very generous boy. You chose well, my nephew.”

“Yeah, well,” Zuko shrugs. “Father paid for it.”

“Zuko.” Iroh’s voice is soft, terribly so. “I wish you would not stay so long at that old mansion.”

“Somebody has to look after it,” he mumbles. “It’s not like Azula can.”

“My brother was irresponsible to not have his affairs in order before he went to prison,” Iroh says lightly. “This does not fall on your shoulders.”

“It kind of does, though,” Zuko says irritably. He drags a hand over his face. “It’s only a few more months until his appeal.”

“You believe that he will walk.”

“I didn’t ask for this, okay!” Zuko shouts, and feels the guilt slam into his chest immediately. “I’m sorry. Fuck. Sorry, Uncle.”

Iroh pulls him in, wraps his arms around him the way he always does, and Zuko’s heart pounds a little less hard in his chest. He pulls back to run a hand through Zuko’s tangled black hair and smiles at him. “Go. Relax with Sokka. You have had a difficult week. We will talk later.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” He’s hoarse, suddenly, all the words catching in his throat. “I...for everything you’ve done. Do. Letting me stay here, it’s more than I deserve-”

“You are my nephew,” Iroh says sharply, but his face is kind. “I love you, Zuko, and will always be here to help you. Now go, before Sokka starts without you!” He winks. “And be safe.”

Zuko wrinkles his nose at the implications, but Iroh’s smile is infectious, and he walks to the bedroom with it plastered across his face.

-

Sokka, true to form, has not waited for him, flower already finely ground and spread along his favorite peach-scented joint wrapper. He’s sealing it when Zuko collapses onto the bed next to him, spreading out and throwing his thigh over Sokka’s with a drawn-out, dramatic groan.

“Fun talk with Uncle?” Sokka offers him one of his Acapulco Golds and the turquoise lighter from the bedside drawer.

“The best,” Zuko says, lighting the joint and taking a long inhale before letting the smoke curl out of his nose. “Open the window. I don’t want my bed to smell like weed.”

“I hate to break it to you, but we’re smoking some loud ass grass in here,” Sokka says patiently. “Your bed is gonna smell like weed no matter what.” He finishes rolling his joint and lights it, sucking in a breath and blowing it out the corner of his mouth. Zuko lets him enjoy it for a few moments before he breaks the silence, words tumbling out of his mouth.

“He doesn’t think I should be looking after the house.” Zuko feels Sokka’s thigh twitch under him and he shifts, letting Sokka slide down to lounge beside him on the pillows.

“You do seem pretty stressed about it.” Sokka offers him his joint. “Wanna try?”

He takes a smaller hit and shrugs. “Hmm. Pretty okay. I still like mine better.”

“Why are you looking after the house?”

He thinks about it; really thinks about it, because he’s not sure he has before. “I don’t know. I feel...responsible. For what happened. He went to jail because I reported him.”

“Yeah, because he burned half your fucking face off,” Sokka says loudly, and immediately makes a face that Zuko knows means he’s feeling guilty. “Sorry. Jesus. I’ve got no tact, you know that.”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says, and he laughs. It’s the weed, he knows it’s partly the weed, but he also knows that, of all people, Sokka can talk to him like that and get away with it. “You’re fucking right. Duh. He’s a terrible person. Terrible father, and that’s not even, like, the worst of what he’s done. All the human rights violations at his company got him twenty-five fucking years more than assault ever would have.”

“So why do it?” Sokka’s halfway down his joint now, but Zuko knows he’s got a strong tolerance. He won’t lose his focus until he hits the end. “Why give a fuck about his house? You’ve got access to his money. You can literally give zero fucks about that stupid mansion and let it rot and it’s no problem of yours.”

“I don’t know, Sokka,” Zuko says, and he finds himself meaning it, the true uncertainty of the statement. “Maybe if Azula gets better and can leave the inpatient program and needs somewhere to go, or...or if I decide I want to move out of Uncle’s apartment-”

“You haven’t spent more than a week in that creepy old house without calling me to come pick you up,” Sokka says softly, and his hand is trailing idly through Zuko’s hair. “Not that I’m ever mad. I’ll always come get you. I just can’t see you being happy there.”

“I’m not!” Zuko laughs, because it’s the funniest thing in the world, and takes the last hit of his joint before letting it sizzle out. “I never would be. I never would.”

Sokka grins and drops both of their roaches in the ashtray on the nightstand before gathering Zuko in his arms. “You’re high as fuck, dude.”

Zuko giggles. “ _ You’re _ high as fuck.”

“I am.” He slides a hand up into Zuko’s hair, scratching at his scalp in a way that elicits soft little hums from the back of Zuko’s throat. “I think Uncle might know we’re a thang, my guy.”

“Uncle knows everything,” Zuko says, very seriously. “He knows we’re stoners, too. Did you know that?”

“Considering that I just gave him weed in your living room, I feel like you should already know the answer to that.”

Zuko curls into Sokka’s body, murmuring happy nonsense and enjoying the floaty feeling of Sokka’s muscular arms wrapped safely around his frame.

-

They walk to the fancy pho place down the block the next day when they wake up, Zuko at his usual spry, early 6AM and Sokka at a more reasonable 10:30AM. He really only wakes up because Zuko, done with his Saturday morning routine of Northern Shaolin kung fu exercises and general household maintenance, climbs on top of him and runs his fingers through Sokka’s short strands of hair until he opens his eyes. Zuko is ridiculously productive the morning after a high; Sokka is almost always ready to sleep until the cows come in.

But he gets up anyways, throws on cotton joggers and a red hoodie that neither of them can remember who owns, and ponders the fact that most of his clothes have migrated from his and Katara’s shared apartment to Zuko’s closet. They walk to Un-Pho-Gettable and say their customary hello to Dahn, the elderly Vietnamese man who runs the place and insists on giving them free mango sweet cakes, and his cat Mr. Katankan. 

Zuko is sipping his pork pho when Sokka gives him The Look. Sokka, of course, has many looks; but this particular one is generally the “it’s time for us to do something reckless, stupid, and/or mildly illegal” look. 

“Here’s the thing,” he starts, and Zuko already knows that whatever it is, he’s going to enjoy it. “You have that big fucking mansion to yourself for at least another month. And let’s be real, despite the many hours of overtime your anxiety is putting in, there’s no fucking way Ozai’s gonna walk.”

“It could happen,” Zuko mumbles half-heartedly through a mouthful of broth. “He’s got Zhao testifying, and his board of trustees. They’ll straight-up lie in court if they have to.”

“But my point is, you have your horrible father’s credit card and access to his house for at least another month,” Sokka says, munching on a saltine. “So we should do some dumb shit. Throw some crazy parties. Paint his bedroom rainbow. Let Toph take a sledgehammer to the east wing.” 

Zuko rolls his eyes as far back as he can. The idea sparks a happy little rage deep inside his chest, he’ll admit. “Yeah, right. Let’s dig me a grave while we’re at it.”

“What’s he gonna do?” Sokka says insistently. “He loses his appeal-which, again, is fucking likely-and doesn’t get out of jail for twenty-five years, at which point he won’t give two shits about a dilapidated old mansion. Or he walks, on some stupid technicality-at which point, what the fuck can he do to you? You’re twenty-two, you have a managing job in a tea shop that pays great, and you’ve got me, who’ll fuck him up if he comes within twenty feet of you.”

“You’ve really thought this through,” Zuko says mildly. “I’m impressed.”

“So?”

“No.”

Sokka groans, slumping back against the leather of the corner booth. “Zuko! This is your chance to stick it to your asshole father in the best possible way with the least possible consequences.”

“He could sue me. He could go after Uncle. He could stop paying for Azula’s inpatient program.” Zuko ticks off the options on his fingers. “I know you’re strong, but he’s dangerous and he could go after you, which I would never forgive myself for.”

“You’re realistic. It’s fine, and it’s one of the reasons why I like you so much,” Sokka admits. “I just hate to see you so miserable. I know how that house makes you feel. I want to help you not feel that way.”

Zuko contemplates him, then speaks. “Then come stay with me.” 

Sokka balks. “What-at the mansion?”

Zuko nods. “I still have two weeks of leave before Uncle needs me to come back to work, and a month before the trial. I can’t promise it’ll be exciting or fun or even remotely interesting. But we can smoke weed and watch movies and, uh-I still have all my mom’s painting supplies, so we could do some art-”

“I’m in.”

Zuko blinks. “Really?”

Sokka nods, slurping up the last of his pho. “Yeah. If we can stop by my apartment first so I can grab some clothes, we can head out this afternoon.”

-

They stop by Zuko’s first to grab his pre-packed weekly duffel and their stash of weed, as well as some DVDs from Iroh’s collection. It’s mostly various seasons of reality television and romantic comedies, but Sokka finds both of Steve Martin’s Pink Panther movies and some Monty Python sketches, which seems like good material for getting baked. Iroh is busy down in the tea shop, and they order boba (spicy thai tea for Zuko, lychee raspberry for Sokka) and wave to him through the kitchen window.

Katara is home from her morning shift at the aquarium when they stop by Sokka’s apartment, making vegan blueberry muffins with Aang, who’s sitting on the countertop and chattering away about the fascinating coursework for his first-year peace studies classes. She rolls her eyes when Sokka informs her of their scheme and teases Zuko mercilessly for stealing her brother while he goes to his room to pack a bag, though she presses a Tupperware of sweet, buttery muffins into his hands as they’re heading out the door and makes him promise to return Sokka in one piece. 

Sokka insists on playing his self-titled Shitpost Playlist on the drive out to the mansion, blasting Running In The Nineties out of his shitty pickup speakers. Zuko hits his dab pen once or twice and sticks his head out the window, letting the smoke pour from his mouth into the wake of Sokka’s over exuberant speeding. They get to the mansion in an hour-”Record time!” Sokka says, and Zuko nods and tries to regain feeling in his hands from where he’s been clenching the safety handle on the ceiling-and end up standing in the gravel driveway at 3:37PM, staring up at the imposing, many windowed house. 

“Well,” Zuko says weakly. “Here we are.”

“I’ve never actually been inside, you know,” Sokka says, grabbing Zuko’s duffel alongside his own and carrying their bags up to the door. “Gonna give me the grand tour?”

And he does, though he warns Sokka that trekking through the massive house will take them the better part of the afternoon. By the time they make their way down to the kitchens, they’re both too tired to really do much, so Zuko throws together some sandwiches from the various fixings in the fridge and they head to Zuko’s room, stopping by the front door to grab their bags.

“So this is-well, I say it’s my room,” Zuko says, “But, you know, my father stripped it when he kicked me out. So it’s less mine and more just...where I sleep when I’m here.”

“This bed is fucking HUGE!” Sokka drops their bags and launches himself onto the king size bed, bouncing against the springy foam of the mattress topper. He spreads himself out, snow angel style, and lets out a long moan that has Zuko a little weak in the knees. “Are these fucking silk sheets?”

“He’s a millionaire, Sokka,” Zuko says, though he doesn’t quite meet Sokka’s eyes. “He’s got silk sheets in every room.”

Sokka sits up, taking in the somber look on Zuko’s face. “I can see that you’re feeling some type of way and I’d like to remind you that your father’s wealthy squandering ways are totally not your fault.”

“I know.” Zuko looks out the window at the manicured lawn and the row of hedges beyond it, view marred only by Sokka’s rusty pickup truck sitting innocuously in the driveway.

“Come on.” Sokka sits up, grabbing his backpack and patting the space beside him. “We’ve still got three joints apiece, that TV over there looks expensive enough to have multiple streaming services, and there’s a plate of sandwiches here that are calling my name.”

Zuko collapses on the bed next to him, pressing elbow to thigh against Sokka and enjoying the warmth of having someone with him in the massive emptiness of the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, bitches. Have some soft Zukka fluff for your day.

They end up blazed as fuck by 7PM, lying on the giant bed in the heady haze of weed and listening to Old Town Road, which sober Sokka refuses to admit is his favorite song. High Sokka is rocking out, though, one arm around Zuko and the other jamming to the beat.

“We probably should have cracked a window,” Zuko says, grinning. The room will never not smell like weed, at the rate they’re going. “Ozai’s gonna come back and think we opened a dispensary.”

Sokka snorts, taking another hit. “Good.”

Zuko sits up, looking out the window at the setting sun. Something tightens in his chest at the sight. He’s seen this view before, seen it a hundred times, at least; but Sokka’s hand is rubbing figure eights up and down his back in his childhood bed, and he’s high as fuck and the music has transitioned to Caramelldansen and he’s just itching to stick the fork in the proverbial socket.

“Hey,” he says dreamily, “Wanna do some mild crime?”

Sokka’s hand halts in its pattern and he chokes out a surprised laugh. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah.” Zuko knows it’s out of the blue. Sokka is the one who usually convinces him to break rules, not the other way around. “Listen, all my mom’s painting equipment is still here. Let’s fucking paint this stupid room.”

“Yes!” Sokka shouts, jumping up and nearly knocking Zuko off the bed. “Finally! I’ve been itching to graffiti something, man.”

They retrieve Ursa’s paint supplies from the secret hidey hole in the bottom of the nearest linen closet, where Zuko had hidden them after she’d left to make sure Ozai wouldn’t throw them out. He still remembers the way she’d cupped his cheek and stroked her thumb just under his left eye, over skin that had not yet been scarred, smiling so mournfully he sometimes forgets she’s still alive and well. Just with her other family.

Her better family, he thinks bitterly, and immediately feels bad.

“Earth to Zuko,” Sokka says obnoxiously, jabbing him in the side with a stirring stick. “Radio Zuko. Come in, Zuko-”

“I’m here, dumbass,” he says irritably, and feels way worse, because he’s not the one in this relationship who uses casual insults; so when he does, Sokka feels it.

He can see the moment he does, too. Sokka draws back, eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead. “Woah. Okay, man. What’s going down?”

“Nothing. Fuck. Sorry, Sokka.” He picks up a half-empty bottle of baby blue paint, ignoring the lump in his throat. “She used to use these every day. She painted my room to look like the sky when I was a baby. Dad, he...he painted over it when I left.”

Sokka scooches over to where he’s kneeling and takes his face between his hands, stroking his thumbs over smooth and scarred skin. The deja vu nearly overwhelms him. “Baby, we don’t have to do this. We can find something else.”

“No. No, I want to.” He grabs the crate of paint supplies and leans over, pressing a kiss against Sokka’s lips. “I love you, Sokka. So much.”

Sokka’s eyes soften around the edges. “I love you too, weirdo.”

-

They end up in old, soft t-shirts and oversized button-ups that Zuko finds in the back of the wardrobe in one of the spare bedrooms. The very first thing Sokka does, of course, is grab the biggest paintbrush he can find and paint a giant, bright orange penis on the wall above Zuko’s desk.

Zuko stares dryly at him for as long as he can before they both dissolve into laughter. 

There’s enough paint in the crate to cover an entire room, so they get to work. Zuko claims the space above the bed for his masterpiece, while Sokka gets started on the door. Their painting styles are very different; Zuko is detail-oriented, going in with a fine brush and outlining everything before filling it with flecks of muted golds and oranges, while Sokka splatters and smacks and smears his way into an explosive masterpiece of rainbow.

“What is it?” Zuko makes the mistake of asking when Sokka’s finished. 

Sokka looks mildly deflated. “Can’t you tell?”

“...Not really.”

He smiles. “It’s you.”

Zuko’s knees go weak. “Me?”

Sokka’s smile turns unusually shy. “Yeah. Do...do you like it?”

It’s colorful and stunningly bright, all things Sokka. He can see the outline of his jawline, his ears, his scar, all rendered in a chaotically gorgeous rainbow. He’s suddenly on the verge of tears at the concept that this is how Sokka-his beautiful, clever Sokka-sees him. 

Sokka is shifting from one foot to the other, more nervous than Zuko’s seen him in a long time. “I know it’s a little childish, with the colors and the wobbly lines-”

“I love it.” Zuko feels a smile split his face from ear to ear. “It’s gorgeous, Sokka. I wish I could take it with me. It doesn’t belong in this stupid house.”

Sokka wraps his arms around him from behind, kissing the side of his neck. “You don’t belong in this stupid house, either.”

Zuko turns to face him, pulling Sokka’s ponytail loose and running his fingers through the short strands before kissing him hard and deep, hand trailing down to cup the back of his skull.

Sokka looks mildly shell shocked when Zuko pulls away. “Hot. You’re hot.”

“I know.” Zuko pulls him over to the bed. “Wanna see what I painted?”

“Absolutely, daddy-o.”

“Call me daddy-o again and I’m putting this paintbrush through your eyeball.” Zuko pulls back the drapes around the four poster with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-da.”

It’s nothing special, certainly not on the level of Sokka’s rainbow portrait masterpiece. Swirls of muted reds and oranges decorate the once-blank wall in what Zuko will admit is a pretty striking rendition of a photograph of the two of them that sits on the bedside table. It’s from a picnic they’d taken with Aang and Katara, and Sokka is wrapped around Zuko like an octopus. They’re both laughing; at what, he can’t remember, but Sokka’s eyes are crinkled at the edges and he’s done his best to put the infectious joy into the painted portrait.

“It’s not as cool as yours, but hopefully it’s passable.” There’s no sound from behind him and Zuko’s heart thuds almost audibly in his chest. “Sorry if you don’t like it.”

Sokka still doesn’t say anything, so Zuko turns around, and it’s instantly clear why. He’s frozen to the spot and there are tears streaming down his face.

“That bad, huh?” Zuko says weakly.

“You’re it for me. You know that, right?” Sokka reaches out with a trembling hand and brushes his thumb against a smear of golden yellow paint that decorates Zuko’s cheek. “You’re it.”

Zuko feels a little like he’s melting.

-

They end up crawling into bed and making out for the rest of the evening, and when Zuko wakes up the next morning at his usual crack-of-dawn, it’s to a surprisingly empty bed. He throws on a t-shirt and begins to hunt down his errant boyfriend.

He loves Sokka’s unpredictability-cherishes it, even and especially when it clashes with his own regimented schedule-but this is unusual. He’s not in the bathroom, singing off-key to Kesha in the shower. Not in the kitchen, eating an impossibly large breakfast sandwich. He’s not sitting on any of the decks or balconies or in any of the living rooms, and Zuko starts to worry. He shoots a text to Sokka (and one to Katara, for good measure) and starts making french toast, hoping that the smell of cooking bread will be enough to lure Sokka out from wherever he might be holed up.

He’s back in their room with a plate of strawberry-covered french toast and a sinking feeling of dread in his heart when he hears the crunch of tires on gravel through the open window. He peers out past the shutters, noticing in his peripheral vision that Sokka’s truck is gone, and nearly stops breathing when he recognizes the silver porsche that’s pulled up in front of the veranda. 

He stares, rooted to the spot, as Zhao steps out, dressed in his usual dark pinstripe suit and heavily tinted sunglasses.

Zuko is excellent at hiding. He locks his bedroom door, turns off all the lights he can find, and gives a dark thanks to his childhood as he slips and slides down the mahogany floors of the house. He ends up in his father’s office, Zhao’s most likely destination, and climbs into the wardrobe opposite the desk, locking it from the inside and praying to any deity that will listen that what Zhao needs isn’t in this particular coat closet.

He hears the heavy footfall of Zhao’s sleek black shoes and peers through the keyhole just in time to see him step into the office, closing the imposing oak door behind him with a quiet click. He starts to shuffle through the papers stacked neatly on Ozai’s desk, mumbling to himself.

“Appeal...fuckin’ kid, doesn’t know what’s good for him...where’s that info…”

After several minutes, Zhao lets out a triumphant grunt and takes a piece of paper from a marked folder before leaving, not bothering to shut the office door behind him. Zuko doesn’t move a muscle until he hears the familiar, ever-decreasing crunch of a car peeling out of the driveway through the window. He stumbles out of the wardrobe and over to the desk, sifting through the papers and finding the red folder Zhao had retrieved the paper from.

The folder has a small label on the side. It says “Zuko; Contact Info”.

-

Sokka steps into the Jasmine Dragon, shaking the rain from his hair. He waves to Iroh through the kitchen window and makes his way to the back, trying to ignore the nervous feeling building in his stomach.

“Sokka!” Iroh exclaims, setting down his dish towel and embracing him. “Is there a reason that my other nephew is not with you? Not that I object to the pleasure of your company.”

Sokka chuckles nervously. “He’s all right. I just-I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Ah,” Iroh says wisely. He gestures to the unassuming ceramic pot sitting on the hot plate next to the more commercial beverage appliances. “Is this a hochija conversation or a kabusecha conversation?”

“Hochija, please, Uncle,” Sokka says respectfully.

“A good choice, as I am out of kabusecha.” Iroh winks and pours them both steaming cups of tea. He offers Sokka one of the cups and leads him to two overturned wooden buckets near the back of the kitchen, sitting across from him. “Please, speak your mind, my friend.”

Sokka takes a sip of the tea to steady his nerves, then makes direct eye contact with Iroh and lets the words leave his mouth before he can overthink them. “I want to ask Zuko to marry me.”

The grin that splits Iroh’s face is blindingly bright. He reaches over and grasps Sokka’s free hand, squeezing tightly. “This is not unexpected.”

The tension bleeds out of Sokka’s spine and he smiles back. “I wanted to ask your permission. I know Zuko thinks of you as his father.”

“You have it.” Iroh sits back, fixing Sokka with a look that makes him feel deeply known. It’s unnerving and comforting at the same time. “Zuko is a singularly unique boy. He has suffered more than is fair or right.”

“I love him,” Sokka says honestly. “I can’t promise that I can prevent him from suffering any more than he could promise that for me. I can promise that I’ll be there for him, no matter what happens.”

Iroh leans back, looking satisfied. “That is all I ask.”

-

He doesn’t go to a jewelry store, in the end. Though every part of him wants to shower Zuko in the finest things, he knows Zuko and knows that diamonds and gold would be a reminder of too many things. 

He ends up in a thrift store just off the highway, digging through buckets of old jewelry. He sifts through bracelets and hairpins for nearly half an hour before he finds it; an old, beautifully wrought silver wedding ring, wreathed with a delicate flower design. It feels so strongly of Zuko that he buys it immediately, alongside an old black-and-green striped sweater that he knows Toph will love.

Katara is at work when he stops by the apartment, and he heads right to his room, digging through the back of his closet for his box of important things. Within it, he finds a small vending machine capsule with a bright blue lid. The little green alien is still inside, a remnant of his and Zuko’s first date to the arcade just down the street from the Jasmine Dragon. Zuko had used their last quarter, presenting it to Sokka with a flourish.

“So that you remember this,” he’d said, face flushed. “You know, when you’re at the pool and there’s tons of cute boys to save from drowning.”

I’d save you from drowning, Sokka had said, and he still meant it.

He pops open the cap and places the ring around the alien before sealing it again.


End file.
